"Well, later on then," he said, smiling. "What about an extra?" Her dark eyes scorned him. "We are going home early," she said. She pretended to examine her programme. "I'm afraid I have not one before we go." She spoke as coldly as she dared. She felt the eyes of Mrs. Combermere and Ellen Stiles upon her. How stupid of her! She had shown them what her feelings were, and now they would chatter the more and laugh about her fighting her father's battles. Why had she not shown her indifference, her complete indifference? He was smiling still--not discomfited by her rudeness. He said something-- something polite and outrageously kind--and then young Charles D'Arcy came up to carry her off for the Lancers. * * * * * An hour later her cup of happiness was completely filled. She had danced, during that hour, four times with Johnny; every one must be talking. Lady St. Leath must be furious (she did not know that Boadicea had been playing whist with old Colonel Wotherston and Sir Henry Byles for the last ever so long). She would perhaps never have such an hour in all her life again. This thing that he so wildly proposed was impossible--utterly, completely impossible; but what was _not_ impossible, what was indeed certain and sure and beyond any sort of question, was that she loved Johnny St. Leath with all her heart and soul, and would so love him until the day of her death. Life could never be purposeless nor mean nor empty for her again, while she had that treasure to carry about with her in her heart. Meanwhile she could not look at him and doubt but that, for the moment at any rate, he loved her--and there was something simple and direct about Johnny as there was about his dog Andrew, that made his words, few and clumsy though they might be, most strangely convincing. So, almost dizzy with happiness, she climbed the stair behind the Gallery and thought that she would escape for a moment into the little room where Johnny had proposed to her, and sit there and grow calm. She looked in. Some one was there. A man sitting by himself and staring in front of him. She saw at once that he was in some great trouble. His hands were clenched, his face puckered and set with pain. Then she saw that it was her father. He did not move; he might have been a block of stone shining in the dimness. Terrified, she stood, herself not moving. Then she came forward. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, father--father, what is it?" She felt his body trembling beneath her touch--he, the proudest, finest man in the country. She put her arm round his neck. She kissed him. His forehead was damp with sweat. His body was shaking from head to foot. She kissed him again and again, kneeling beside him. Then she remembered where they were. Some one might come. No one must see him like that. She whispered to him, took his hands between hers. "Let's go home, Joan," he said. "I want to go home."